Ash and Amber
by Growly Genet
Summary: After spending two years in a mental hospital a now cured Dib finds himself catapulted into the midst of a long ongoing battle, one that threatens to change his outlook on the world forever... if it doesn't kill him first.


**Ash and Amber**

**Part One**

_**Chapter One**_

_"You're searching, Joe, for things that don't exist; I mean_

_beginnings. Ends and beginnings -- there are no such things. There are_

_only middles."_

_- Robert Frost_

_The wind has shifted; now it blows across_

_our path and rises from the black west, now_

_the air has thickened into mist. We cannot _

_hold out against it, cannot keep on course._

_Since Fortune has the better of us now,_

_Let us obey and turn aside where she_

_has called. I think the faithful shores of Eryx, _

_your brother, and Sicilian ports are not _

_far off, if only I remember right_

_and can retrace the stars I watched before._

_- Virgil, The Aeneid,_

--

-1-

Dib spent the two years before he turned eighteen in the minimum security wing of the Defective Head Meat Institute. It had taken them four months before that for them to determine that although he was obviously a raving lunatic, he was generally harmless. In all, he'd spent two years and four months with the eye of doctors constantly flitting his direction. Never settling on him though - because in the time he'd spent there, he'd finally learned to lie low. It would all pass, in time.

The group sessions tended to be the worst part of it all. They took place once a week and Dib was forced to sit there throughout the entire process, wishing he could just sink down through his chair and into the floor. Whenever the focus was on him, he kept his eyes downcast and his voice as level as he could make it.

He never talked about aliens.

That was what had gotten him embroiled in the whole mess in the first place... the talk of aliens. Of a particular alien, in fact. An alien who had just up and vanished without a trace two years and five months ago - a departure that had set in motion the events that led to his admittance at the Defective Head Meat Institute. Even now, he still didn't know what had happened to the Irken Invader - and he spent many evenings staring out the window that looked onto the exercise yard and wondering about it. Had he just become bored and decided to leave? Had he given up trying to invade earth? Or had something else happened - something entirely unexpected?

Or perhaps Zim had never existed and the doctors were right. Perhaps he was just fucked up in the head, and the aliens were just an attempt on his part to distance himself from a reality where he had no friends and his family was so distant as to be barely present in his life. That was what they often said when they diagnosed him. There were moments in the dark when he felt the beginnings of acceptance starting to creep into him, when Zim did indeed seem more like a phantom created by his own lonely mind than a real person... At those times, he couldn't help but question everything he knew to be real - all of his memories that could prove to be the real traitors.

Reality and fantasy... where was the line to be drawn? The past that the doctors presented to him seemed the more reasonable of the two. He could almost believe it had happened in that manner. At the same time, his own memories felt equally valid. They couldn't both be true. The dichotomy was tearing him apart inside.

He was able to put it aside for the most part, through the realization that soon he would be free again. He marked the days on the little Pigs of the World calender that his sister had mailed him - he had no idea why she'd even bothered with what seemed like a grudging act of kindness, but he was grateful for it somewhere deep inside. The days blended together into one long, unending routine of eating and sleeping. At least with the calender hanging on the wall, he could see that time was passing - it was obvious in every "x" he made with the red felt marker he'd taken out of the art box.

They weren't allowed pens or pencils and while Dib did occasionally work on the little coloring sheets they had available for the patients to use as mild entertainment (the only picture he'd completely colored was a dove of some kind, it had taken him a week of slow, painstaking scribbling with a dulled crayon to finish it, and it stared down at him every night from where it was taped above his bed) for the most part he entertained himself with books. Those were allowed, at least, and though most of the ward's "library" was old picture books and the occasional issue of National Geographic dating from the 1960s, he'd managed to find a small treasure among the heap. It was a slim, leather-bound book that probably would have been worth something if the previous owner had decided to sell it rather than donating it to a mental hospital.

The title was simply, "Magic for Beginners", and aside from a wordy intro that Dib couldn't make heads nor tails of, he enjoyed it thoroughly. He couldn't actually try many of the tricks outlined in the yellowed pages - only the playing cards were considered acceptable material, and he'd never been able to get ahold of his family to send him a deck. Rope, knives, scissors and needles were all completely out of the question as well. It was just a rare stroke of luck that he found a coin hidden in the leather cover of the book. The glint of light off of the tiny protruding edge had caught his attention and he'd spent the greater part of half a day trying to pull it out. Why someone had felt the need to store it there, he didn't know - but he kept it with him and he slept with the book tucked into his pillowcase in case anyone might see it and take it.

It was a real silver dollar - or such was the educated opinion of his roommate, Miles Lira. The man had been there a lot longer than Dib had - although for what exactly, he couldn't be sure. Nor did he think he wanted to know as he observed the webbing of scars across the man's cheek. He made it a point never to ask about the matter - telling himself it was none of his business. Part of him was more willing to admit to the truth of the matter - that Miles unsettled him somewhere deep in the pit of his being, but at the same time the sensation was oddly exciting. He couldn't resolve the two reactions within himself - eventually just pushing the issue to a far back corner of his mind and trying to ignore it.

"'s genuine, a'right." The man seemed vaguely interested as he surveyed the coin before tossing it back to Dib. "'s prolly worth more than you are, boy. I'd keep hold of that if I'ere you."

Dib didn't argue with the assessment, although he wondered about the fact that Miles hadn't made any attempt to keep it himself. He just felt like that type. But Dib wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth - especially as the days passed and his silver dollar remained firmly in his possession.

Two months and six days before Dib was scheduled to be released, Miles Lira was transferred out of the ward - moved to another mental hospital somewhere upstate. The young man felt both disappointed and relieved at his absence - although the relief grew as time passed and he wasn't assigned another roommate.

A month before he was due to be released, Dib was called aside by one of the doctors. He was led into one of the little "staff only" rooms. If he'd ever had wild imaginings about what correctional devices and medicines might be found in the locked rooms, they were sorely disappointed. There was only a desk with a computer sitting on it, and two chairs, one on either side. Dib sank into the one on the far side of the desk - located at an angle that meant he couldn't see the screen. He would have wagered anything that the placement was deliberate, and he could only try not to fidget, glancing around at the "happy" posters on the wall. One of them had a picture of a smiling boy with the caption "It takes 43 muscles to frown and only 17 to smile". He had the vivid mental image of some crazed scientist slicing open the poor kid's face to figure that statistic out and shuddered, turning his attention back to the desk.

The doctor tapped at the keyboard, staring thoughtfully at the screen before turning his gaze to Dib. "So... Dib. Your file says that you've been here for two years."

'Two years and three months,' He couldn't help mentally correcting the man, but knew better than to say anything out loud, just nodding weakly.

It was enough of an answer for the doctor, and he didn't even blink before looking back at the computer screen. "It says here you'll be turning eighteen in a month. You understand that this makes you a legal adult, and therefore not under our jurisdiction any longer." He steepled his fingers on the desk, turning his gaze to Dib. "But I'm not sure if you understand that this release is conditional. We don't believe in releasing potentially dangerous or troublesome patients onto the streets just because they're of age. It would be easy for us to get the order reissued and keep you here."

Dib felt a spike of fear in his gut at these words, wanting to shrink away from the doctor behind the desk. The thought of spending another few years here sent uncontrollable shivers through his body. It had only been the knowledge that the captivity would soon be over that had kept him from truly going mad in the time he'd spent in the mental hospital. Now it seemed that freedom might have been a false hope after all.

His fears were banished again as the doctor continued, "But it says here you've been a model patient - very polite and cooperative in your treatments. And your treatments do seem to have been very effective, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes, sir." Dib agreed a little too quickly, and then fumbled his words trying to reassure the man that he was actually better. Cured, even. "I... I mean. The treatments have been very effective, sir. I don't believe in aliens and... and stuff anymore. I was just imagining those things."

The doctor smiled, but didn't say anything about the slip - nor did he look at his computer screen and type in something about Dib being unfit for release. Instead, he changed the subject. "It says here you have a family waiting for you back home."

"My dad and my sister," Dib said quietly, although he wasn't entirely sure that "waiting for him" was the right descriptor. He thought it would be lucky if they cared one way or another about his return.

"That's good. Do you have any plans to seek employment upon your release?"

"Yeah... I'm going to get a job in my Dad's lab." It had been an open offer before he'd been admitted, and a few weeks ago, someone from the lab had called to let him know that he was still welcome to work there. They weren't offering him the same high position they had before though - it was strictly menial work, fetching and carrying. It had hurt to realize nobody thought him worth more than that anymore. He was just another lunatic - the stigma of madness would probably brand him for the rest of his life. But he wasn't planning on turning the offer down - in all likelihood, it was the best he'd ever get now.

"Very good." The man sounded genuinely pleased by these answers. "Do you know how you'll be getting home?"

"My dad is paying for a cab..." He mumbled the words, once again reminded that his release wasn't worth his father taking enough time to come and pick him up personally.

The doctor nodded, but he seemed far more positive about the situation than Dib was. "It sounds as though you should able to make the adjustment with less difficulty than most of our patients. You've got a job and a family - a life to go back to. You're a very lucky young man, Dib." He stood up. "That's all for now." The man made no offer to shake Dib's hand as he was ushered towards the door, and Dib made no comment at the lack.

As the days started to count down towards his release, he felt the relief he was feeling beginning to be tempered with a niggling sense of unease. It didn't go away either - not even when confronted with the constant litany of reassurances he had taken to reciting to himself. It started as a heavy lump in the pit of his stomach, but grew rapidly. His last two weeks were the worst of all - worse than the entire two year span he'd spent in the Defective Head Meat Institute.

It had to be the weather - Dib decided eventually. There was a heavy oppressiveness in the air, like the world holding its breath before a storm. He had the niggling sensation that if only the storm would come, things would be better. But it never came - and the time stretched out unbearably.

Six days before his release, one of the other patients sidled up to him, sinking into the chair beside him at the table where he normally ate alone. He vaguely recognized her - Sam something-or-other. He had no idea when she'd arrived at the ward - only the vague impression that she'd really always been there in the background. Surely he would have remembered if she'd arrived during his stay. She was the blackest person he'd ever seen, with skin so obsidian dark that it seemed to glisten. She might have been thirty. She might have been eighty. Dib could never have told one way or the other, because it seemed like she was constantly changing - but in such a subtle way that it was probably just his overactive imagination playing tricks on him once again.

"Hm?" Dib glanced up from his plate, not looking directly at her, but just giving her a sidelong gaze.

"There's a storm on the way." She didn't bother to even say hello.

"Yeah... I can feel it. Maybe it'll snow..."

"Not that sort of storm," Sam's dark eyes were fixed on some point past the blank white wall as she spoke. "There's a bigger storm coming than anything that's ever happened in my lifetime." She went silent for a short while, but Dib made no attempt to speak, certain that she wasn't done speaking. He was right. "You're better off being in here than on the outside when it hits."

Dib swallowed and shook his head slowly, forcibly quelling the anxiety that was trying to rise again. After all this time, there was no way he was staying in here. Besides, she was just a crazy woman. A nutcase. "I've done my time. I'm going home."

Her eyes narrowed and she finally turned her gaze on him. Her eyes were at least as dark as her skin - darker than he'd ever thought possible for eyes to be. They were like two bottomless wells - with no easy way to distinguish between the pupil and the iris. "That's your call. But there is a big storm coming. Keep your head down, Dib. There are riders on this storm, and you don't want to be caught in the middle. Understand?"

"Not really." Dib admitted.

Sam's lips curled upwards in a little smile, one eye closing in a wink. "Maybe I don't either. But don't say I didn't warn you." She turned her gaze back to her food, digging her plastic fork into the chocolate pudding on her tray and ignoring the rest of the food entirely.

"I won't."

- 2 -

He spent the night lying awake and staring up at the ceiling - listening to the faint noises that came through the thin walls so clearly when it was dark outside. There was the occasional rush of a car passing by on the little two-lane highway a short distance from the hospital. Somewhere in one of the other rooms, someone was crying and moaning; no words were distinguishable at all, just the low, agonized sounds - like listening to a dying animal. And Dib slowly closed his eyes and tried not to hear any of it - he let the night wash over him, just waiting for it all to be over - finally over.

Morning was reluctant to come, but come it did, eventually. There were only forty-eight hours left before he was going to leave this place for good. He was in the middle of eating his bowl of oatmeal when one of the nurses came up and tapped him on the shoulder. "Dib? Please come with me." When he saw the very deliberately neutral expression on her face, he knew that something just wasn't right.

As he followed closely behind her, he couldn't help but wonder if he'd done something wrong. Perhaps the doctor in charge had reviewed his case and decided that he wasn't going to be released after all. Maybe they thought another year or two would be better. Some part of him was berating him for coming to conclusions so quickly but even with that persistent little voice nagging at him, he couldn't help the sensation of overwhelming dread that was building inside of him. He was jittering inside as he was led into the office - sinking into the offered seat and peering up at the director with a timid smile.

"Dib. Your record says you were picked up two years ago for attempting to trespass on a secure government facility. The state ruled that you could not be held liable because of your mental condition."

'Two years, three months and twenty eight days,' Dib thought, then the words really struck him and he thought he knew exactly what they were getting at. Now that he was ruled "rehabilitated" they probably wanted to send him to prison for trespassing. He wanted to sink down in his chair and cover his ears, as if doing so could make the words not real.

The director shuffled the papers he was holding, not looking at Dib directly. "You were scheduled to be released in two days - on your eighteenth birthday." Were scheduled? So they were planning to keep him here longer. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. He didn't like this place at all, but it was still better than prison. The next words out of the man's mouth were not at all what he'd been expecting. "Your release date has been moved up. The paperwork has already been signed, and we'll be releasing you later this afternoon."

Before Dib could even begin to really understand this statement, the director pulled a sheet of paper out of his stack and slid it across the desk to the young man. Dib stared down at it uncomprehendingly, not really seeing the words at all.

"This arrived a short time ago from Memorial Hospital. It's about your sister."

'Gaz?'

"She died yesterday evening. It was an automobile accident." The director didn't seem aware of the utterly blank expression on Dib's face. "I'm sorry." But the apology didn't penetrate his mind at all - just dancing along the surface and refusing to sink in. None of it wanted to sink in. Gaz - dead? That seemed so far out of the realm of possibility that it was almost laughable.

It wasn't until he was standing out on the curb waiting for the cab with the wind whipping and tearing at his hair, and icy droplets of water splattering across his skin that he got it.

He was free. His sister was dead.

Despite the rain and lightning that was beginning to rage around him, he had the uncomfortable sensation that old Sam had been right. The storm had only just begun...


End file.
